


I am so sorry John.

by Jem (letalloursingingfollowhim)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angry Alexander Hamilton, Angst, F/M, M/M, No one deserves the sadness, Sad Alexander Hamilton, hurt john laurens, i didn’t sleep for this, poor john laurens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letalloursingingfollowhim/pseuds/Jem
Summary: A short snippet of something historical. John was shot and Alexander is extremely annoyed.





	I am so sorry John.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This didn’t take too long to write and I should really sleep as the most sleep I’m going to get is four and a half hours. Enjoy!

“I have every right to be angry, John!”

Vexation was clear and evident in the tone of the young aide-de-camp. He was right on every level- he had all the right to be angry with his dearest friend, John Laurens. John was often a recklessly suicidal fighter, something that pained Alexander Hamilton to know. Whenever he left the tent for anything, Alexander had a horrible twisting, stabbing feeling in his chest that he just wouldn’t come back that time. That he’d be informed by a solemn George Washington of his demise.

And now look- he was hurt! Shot in the left shoulder, once again. 

It was stifling hot outside, even if it was drawing into early September, with the leaves of each tree becoming hazel-brown and red; teetering on the edge of its stalks, waiting for a gust of wind to blow it off for it to finally land. A battle between the loyalists and patriots hadn’t even been planned for that day, but either side could (although warned heavily against!) strike the opposing alliance whenever they saw just. Today, neither side had sought a fight... apart from John. That was exactly what got on Alexander’s last nerve. He still wasn’t fully accepting of his best friend’s horribly reckless tendencies.

“You must realise that you cannot constantly be seeking someone whom you can fight with. Goodness, John, look at you! What did the redcoat even do to you?” Alexander spoke, his tone wavering with the sheer anger pulsating through his body. He was stressed enough! The job of an aide, especially George Washington’s most efficient aide, was not an easy one. The constant stream of correspondence he had to write to was almost painfully long. Even if Alexander has such an affinity to write, it did get extremely arduous at times.

John Laurens hadn’t even walked into the tent yet. His usual blond hair was caked with mud and dried blood, making it look more of a muddy-blond, closer to brown. The blue uniform that signified his alliance to the loyalists was torn around the left shoulder and right arm. He looked a complete state. To the naked eye, John Laurens looked like he could’ve rolled around in a pig sty and taken a knife to his own uniform. Whenever he had stalked into the tent, Alexander’s eyes had been immediately drawn to the fact his uniform was practically in tatters. He had sighed so hard John was sure he had no air left in his lungs.

“Breathe, Alex, goodness,” John started, dropping the formalities of his full name, walking a little further in. “His name was Edmund, to start, and no, he isn’t dead... although he deserves to be!” he spat under his breath, anger filling every inch of him again. Taking a breath, he continued, replying to the only question Alexander had actually asked him. “For one, I saw him attempting to get into our camp, and he then second, he’d accused me of being seen in a loyalists camp. I stopped listening after that. I’ll spare you the details, Alexander, wouldn’t want to infuriate you more.”

Each word that John had spoken had somehow made Alexander shake his head even more, making him increasingly dizzy. The neat queue Alexander’s dark red hair had been pulled back into was becoming lose, almost to the fact where he could practically see his hair bobbing up and down near his shoulders. Could John be anymore stupid! Of course, Alexander didn’t truly see his best friend as idiotic or the slew of hurtful phrases he was about to throw at the poor bleeding boy in the entrance to the muggy tent.

“Bloody Hell. Bloody Hell, John! Do you realise the magnitude of your uncivil actions? Or the impact and consequences. Do you ever think before you act!” Alexander stood up. His hair had long fallen out of the black ribbon. “If they realise what patriot has hurt their own- heaven knows what’ll happen if he tells someone- we’re in deep trouble. I should inform Washington, shouldn’t I?” His face was close to John’s, close enough to feel each other’s breathing. 

Apprehension lingered in the off-white tent, tension so palpable you could cut it with a knife. No one was able to predict anyone else’s action. Was Alexander about to hit John? John to Alexander? There was slight black fear pulsating behind Alexander’s red-with-rage eyes. Fear for what John could do. Fear for what could have happened. Fear for what could happen. Just before Alexander was able to lift a hand to hit John hard across the face, his friend’s hand stopped him, firmly gripping his wrist.

“Leave.” John stated bluntly. If Alexander went, took a walk and then came back, he would’ve cooled off. He had seen Alexander worked up to this point of anger and frustration before, often due to Washington’s severe work load. “Take a break and come back once you have calmed down. I can patch myself up well enough- it’s only a graze anyway. I can patch it up myself.”

The younger red-headed boy briefly nodded before walking out into the suffocating heat. The sun was setting, that was what Alexander was trying to focus on, the way it cast shadows and rays of golden light upon everything it hit. Alexander’s plan had to be walk around camp a little, calm himself down, forget about John, forget about work. But that didn’t happen. His mind simply just churned with thoughts and ideas, of arguments and correspondence. Being frank, it began to give himself a headache. He knew that, indefinitely, he would blow up at John if went back there. So he didn’t. For that night, he resided with the dear Marquis, Lafayette.

...That was the day Alexander regretted most. He regretted it most for the fact he didn’t go back to John. Instead, he selfishly took up residence with someone else. Although he had seen it as saving John at the time, not too later on did Alexander find out John had been calling for him all night. Calling out in an almost delirious state, terrified the person he trusted most had upped and left him. When he had found out about the situation, Alexander had never felt more guilt than then. It consumed him, it went from the perfectly acceptable warmth, to the freezing atrocity that was guilt. It was a monumental task to forgive himself. 

He barely forgave himself now, now in 1782, sitting at his wooden desk with a letter addressed “my Dear Laurens”, the “dear” smudged slightly due to Alexander’s habit of blotting impatiently early. All the things he wanted to tell John now swarmed his mind, just as Elizabeth has left the room. Just as Elizabeth had brought the news that John had died. To describe how Alexander was feeling would be impossible; he nauseous almost. Numb, perhaps? Guilty? Alexander felt guilty. He was partially responsible at least, he had to be. Taking a shaky breath, he set down his quill and paper. A single tear rolled down his face.

John was dead. John was gone. He was so sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! All comments//constructive criticism//suggestions are more than welcome!
> 
> -Li.


End file.
